California, love it or leave it.

I want a house. I want one so badly that I very uncharitably envy all of my friends who have houses of their own. I want walls that aren’t white, a garden that I can control and, above all, I want a pet.

But I can’t have a house because I live in the San Francisco Bay Area where your basic 1950's tract home costs over a half a million.

So you’re probably thinking to yourself, well move then. Here’s the deal. I’m actually a native of this area. That’s right, born and raised. And, truth be told, I don’t want to leave. I love it here. More than that, all the people that I love (with the exception of a few folks on the east coast) live here as well.

But everyone wants to come here. They leave Ohio or Maine or Georgia and head to California where the weather is lovely, the high-tech industry still (more or less) reigns supreme, and where houses cost a ridiculous amount of money.

My complaint is this. Because everyone moves here and has pushed the price of houses way out of my reach, I’m naturally a bit resentful. And what makes it worse…is when people who aren’t from here, complain about it.

“Oh, it’s so expensive out here!” They exclaim. No kidding…you want cheap? Go back to Idaho.

“I miss the seasons. California doesn’t have real seasons.” Aw, I’m sorry you miss watching the leaves change color…you know, you could move back to Connecticut and watch the leave change to your heart's content.

“It’s so crowded.” You know, you’re right…it is crowded. Why don’t you free up some space by returning to New Jersey – I think they miss you there.

Now I have a great many friends (and a wonderful husband) who are themselves transplants. And of course, since this is my world, they can stay…but if you’re going to move out here, cause traffic, inflate house prices and compete with me for jobs, at least have the decency to stop insulting my home.

Why an SUV?

Does anybody really know why people would buy an SUV? Do they people who buy them really know why they are purchasing such an unhelpfully large vehicle?

I can understand them for people who really do have the SUV-commercial lifestyle. Rock climbing in Yosemite. Skiing in the Sierras. Rafting down the…uh…big wet thing. But it’s odd. I actually do know people like that and they have pickup trucks. Not even the big-ass, hay-hauling kind either. Just a Toyota big enough to throw a tent and some rope into.

So why the SUVs? Please don’t give me the “I’ve got a bad back,” argument. I’ve heard that one. Guess what? I have a bad back. I just got through two rounds of physical therapy for it and not once did my therapist recommend I shell out an obscene amount of money to purchase a monster larger than my garage.

And don’t say, “We’ve got kids.” My folks had 5 kids and managed just fine with a station wagon.

So what’s the point? Why do people actually want something that gets 15 mpg when gas is over $2 a gallon? Why will people voluntarily drive something that is nearly impossible to park? (Note: You know those parking spaces labeled “compact car only?” THAT MEANS YOU, IDIOT. If you’re not in a small car, go park in one of those spaces at the other end of the lot. And don’t complain about having to walk – it’s good training for all those camping trips you must be taking because you have an SUV.)

People are spoiled. And car companies (hell, every company in the world) panders to that. Now I’m not going to get all “in my day” over you, but I do recall doing just fine growing up in a station wagon that did not have cup holders, 5-disc CD changers, a DVD player, individual climate control, or any of the other conspicuous options that people feel they need. And tell me, what’s the point of having kids if you won’t even talk to them while they’re in the damned car with you. Road trips were not meant for the kids to be watching Shrek in the back while mom and dad talk to each other – they’re supposed to be about family bonding. Remember the stupid license plate game from your own childhood? Teach it to your kid. Sing silly songs. Count cows. Yeah, there are boring stretches filled with “are we there yet?” But they are more than made up for by the fact that you will actually be interacting with your children, not just keeping them busy.

The Cheshire Mac

Computers are kind of like cats: they think they are smarter than you are.

Both the computer and the cat are wrong. They are not smarter than you are -- they are merely better at getting what they want than you are.

Consider the cat. A cat will blithely ignore you for most of your existence and then decide that it would like its ears scratched please and would you be quick about it. So, unlike a person who would like some affection, a cat does not make subtle conversation, laden with hopeful overtones and oblique hints too vague to be picked up by anybody other than Kreskin. No, a cat simply pours itself into you lap -- regardless of what you are doing -- and demands to be petted.

Now consider the computer. You are minding your own business, happily working away at a machine you once had to be convinced wouldn’t electrocute you. Then, you quite innocently do something that offends its delicate sensibilities. Now suppose you had similarly offended a person. A human would perhaps withdraw quietly, maybe with a little pouting for good measure, and save up the minor grievance (which would subsequently be heaped upon by other minor grievances) to be brought out and thrown into the offender’s face at a later date. However, a computer demands instant retribution. It beeps (or boings or hisses) at you insistently until you apologize for your transgressions by immediately fixing whatever was wrong. Silence is your only reward for jumping to its beck and call.

You see, in both instances, we the people like to think of ourselves as the master -- and in both instances, we are sorely mistaken.

Join me
I have just volunteered to visit swing states for the Kerry campaign in the hopes of doing something to get George Bush out of office. Please join me. This is not the time to sit back and wring your hands while you bitch about the state of the world. This is the time to do something. Help register people to vote. Volunteer to call people. Sign up to go door to door. Host a house party to raise money. Do something, anything to get involved. Just make sure that if the unthinkable does happen and Bush gets reelected, you don't end up kicking yourself for not doing more.

All the news that fits

I have grown weary of the news. Mostly because we seem to be missing so much of it. Taking William Randolph Hearst as their patron saint, modern American news outlets have decided that telling us what they want us to know is more important than telling us what we need to know.

The worst crime of all, in my opinion, is the way the media decides there is one “it” story and that story will, above even wars and natural disasters, always have a place of prominence. Even when it’s no longer news.

Here in the San Francisco Bay Area the “it” story is the trial of Scott Peterson. And most of the coverage doesn’t even qualify as journalism, let alone “news.”

Let’s remove the personalities and look at this strictly as a crime. A woman disappears; that’s news. Her body is found; that’s news. Her husband is arrested; that’s also news. And when a verdict is reached, ok, that qualifies as news. However, taking up 5 minutes of a 30-minute local news broadcast with “interviews” with legal “experts” getting their opinions on the day’s testimony and what it means for the case is not news.

An interview with someone who went to high school with a murder victim is not news, and yet the media wants us to believe it is. Somewhere along the line, “opinion” became “news” and now it’s impossible to watch pretty much any television news without being told what might happen, what could happen, and what might happen if what could happen happens. (Follow all that?)

It’s not like these people have to struggle to fill up their news broadcasts, is it? The world is most obligingly supplying us all with non-stop material in the form of wars, genocide, terrorist attacks, crime, poverty, and other forms of mayhem. As if that weren’t enough, Mother Nature is kindly bestowing upon us hurricanes, locust invasions, droughts, and more. And yet there always seems to be room for the “it” story.

The problem is, that to make for the “it” story, the networks deny us full and impartial coverage of the aforementioned wars, genocides, droughts, etc. Ah…but who cares what happens in Africa as long as we can all get through the day secure in the knowledge that our media has qualified us to have an opinion about the behavior of Scott Peterson’s girlfriend.

I am not cool enough for the Bill Evans Trio. I have never visited a
nightclub wearing pearls and gloves. I do not like martinis, or other drinks
defined as "cocktails". I do not smoke. I have never sat in a below-street
club with blue spotlights and a coat-check girl. I have never held hands
across a small round table

There are some recordings that evoke an inescapable sense of emotion.
Mozart's Requiem, for instance, must cloak you in nostalgic melancholy. Some
create a sense of time -- "Eve of Destruction", for instance, will always be
the Vietnam War. But "Something for Debby" creates a sense of place. It can
only be New York. Specifically the New York of black before it was a fashion
statement, ever-honking taxi horns, steam rising from underground grates,
waiters in white coats, and women in red lipstick.

I am not cool enough for the Bill Evans Trio. But I "get" it in a way that I
hadn't ever really listend to jazz before. Perhaps because the multiple
tracks beg for repeated listening and comparison. Why is one version of a
song 15 seconds longer than another? How do three separate instruments
happen to sound so harmonious and yet so distinct? And why have I never
heard this music before?

This is jazz in a way that invites you in for a drink. So my assertion that
I'm not cool enough doesn't stem from the music's treatment of me -- rather
my assessment of the music. The quirky, beautiful, perfectly matched sound
is like something I want to be when I grow up. Unlike jazz that slaps you
with its uniqueness...and reminds you that you will never be a part of it;
this invites you to the party. It's your own fault if you lean against the
wall and feel only slightly like an imposter.

I want to belong to this music. I want to be one of those people
clapping in the background. I want to like drinks with olives in them, and
to close my eyes when the bass gets going. This music should accompany the
perfect romantic dinner at home. It's made to be listened to, closely, but
it won't be offended if it becomes a backdrop for conversation.

This is music to play on the stereo when you take your dream car for its
first ride. Music to cook to, before breaking into a spontaneous waltz in
the kitchen. Music to take you to New York, put you into that smoke-filled
club, and hold your hand across that small, round table.

There's only one problem with this music. I'm not cool enough.
For Fo, with love.

White Chicks Can't Dance
While watching the closing ceremonies for the Olympics it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I have no culture.

I’m not talking about Chopin-listening, poetry-reading culture, I’m talking ethnic identity culture.

Like many Americans, I’m a mutt. I’m a little French, a bit of Scots, a tiny bit of Irish, maybe even a pinch of Native American. But I’ve never identified with any of those cultures, and so I have no cultural identity. I’m a white chick, and we have no history.

I envy my friends who have tradition. The Passover Seder. The Cinco de Mayo festival. Chinese New Year. I have no childhood foundation of traditional foods (unless you count Thanksgiving), traditional dances (I shall glaze over the years my parents took Disco lessons at the local Rec center), or traditional forms of dress.

I only speak English, much to my embarrassment. I cannot share with others a heritage of music and feasts. And, in spite of being raised Catholic, I don’t have any real holiday feelings – although I do love both the giving and receiving of gifts at Christmas. Especially the receiving bits.

There is something missing in my life, but it’s a gap that I find I am powerless to fill. I’m just not the kind of person who can adopt other people’s traditions just because I want to. It would just feel false, which is not what I’m looking for.

I just wish I had more of a culture. Oh sure, as an American, I can point proudly to jazz and the blues….but little else has arisen that can be called “American,” and that fills me with any sense of belonging. And even those, while among some of my favorite forms of music, hardly compare with what my more culturally rich friends have to offer. When was the last time you saw an ad for “The Annual White Chick Festival?” (And no, Lillith Fair doesn’t count.)

When I’m surrounded by Greek Festivals, Carnival parades, Cherry Blossom festivals, and the other glories of the wonderfully multi-cultural San Francisco Bay Area I must confess to feeling woefully inadequate in the heritage department.

Flip Flop Flap
What am I missing here? The Republicans keep bashing Kerry because he "flip flops." Oh dear. That's dangerous. What we really need is someone who forms an opinion and never lets go of that opinion even when the facts prove that the opinion is wrong. Yes, we can't have someone in office whose mind is open to change, who re-evaluates a situation based upon new evidence, can we? That would be suicidal.

Down with Reality! (TV)
Recently I spent a great deal of time watching NBC’s coverage of the Olympics. It was the most time I’d spent watching network television since the last Olympics. Frankly, I hate the quality of American television, and the ads I saw in-between sports did nothing to alter my opinion.

Whatever happened to scripts? What happened to good writing, actors who get hired for their talent rather than their hair, and plots? What’s so wrong with a good plot?

And what exactly is the appeal of so-called “reality TV?” Tell me, whose reality involves being given a million dollars to live in a mansion with 50 supermodels? My reality isn’t like that.

Real reality TV would be extremely boring. One hour of watching someone grocery shop. A house full of a family doing homework and cooking dinner. That’s reality. Reality has nothing to do with eating maggots, getting engaged to a total stranger, or working for Donald Trump.

When I watch TV, I want to either be entertained or informed. Preferably both. And I see no entertainment value in reality TV. I wouldn’t want to meet these people, so why would I waste an hour of my life watching them on television? And why would I go out of my way to see obnoxious self-absorbed losers when there are so many that I can actually interact with in real life?

I want comedy that makes me laugh because the scripts and the situations are funny, not something that is billed as a comedy simply because it has a laugh-track and a lot of jokes about obnoxious kids. And I want dramas that believe there’s more to life than car-chases and emergency room scenes. I never want to hear the word “stat” again.

I have a brain. I like to use it. I presume others are also quite fond of their brains, and yet American television seems to feel otherwise. Oh sure, there are pockets of intelligent entertainment, thank god for cable, but mainstream television, frankly, sucks.

Personally, I think it’s all part of the downward spiral of American culture. Fat selfish people raising fat selfish children on a steady diet of McDonalds, SUVs, and television programs that teach people that you will be rewarded for lying and backstabbing. Wonderful. Great lessons for our kids, don’t you think.

In an era when the word “hero” has come to mean someone who gets paid $15 million to play basketball it’s no wonder that so much of our entertainment seems to be about money, sudden fame, and the rewards that come from being selfish.

And so I rear my head once more...
I've been silent for far too long, I know, but I'm back. I needed to be isolated for a bit, figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Ever get that way? Like a sick animal that just wants to curl up in a cave by himself. That was me, broke and freaking out about it, trying to get the taste of that awful place out of my soul and wondering what the heck to do next.

So, on to today's thought...

I am a fashion conscientious objector (as opposed to victim), and as such, I’m proud to say that I just don’t get it. I simply do not understand how women can pay thousands of dollars for the privilege of torturing themselves with uncomfortable articles of clothing and footwear that will be out of style in a year. I fail to see the attraction of it all. And, personally, I just cannot believe that I will be mesmerizingly more attractive to the opposite sex if I wear shoes that I cannot walk in, jeans that I cannot breathe in, and sweaters that cost more than a month’s salary.

Nor do I understand the creative rationale behind fashion ads. Why do photographers insist on putting models into situations where the clothing they wear cost more than the entire building? Are derelict warehouses that conjure up the remembered scent of old urine and fresh vomit the natural landscape for hand-tooled Italian leather boots and English cashmere sweaters?

Do $300 dollar bathing suits get shown to better advantage against a graffiti-littered brick alleyway as opposed to, oh say, a beach perhaps?

Don’t they realize that the kinds of individuals who typically haunt these decrepit locales are highly unlikely to have platinum American Express cards – and the kinds of individuals who can easily drop $1000 on a blouse or a pair of shoes rarely find themselves surrounded by rusted chain-link fences, weed-spattered parking lots, and broken concrete?

Perhaps that’s what the “victim” in the phrase “fashion victim” means. Someone who, if they appeared wearing that clothing in that setting, would become a victim. A statistic. A “hey, I’m wearing more on my ass that you own in your whole life, so why not come over and rob me” kind of victim.

It just doesn’t make sense. Oh sure, a few marketeers actually put their models in the appropriate setting. Perfectly air-brushed androids posed majestically against one Hampton or another. Lounging languidly on a yacht. Sipping something frosty on a sun-dappled terrace in the south of someplace.

But all too frequently fashion ads resemble nothing more than crime scene photos, minus the chalk outline. Looking variously bored or miserable, anorexic mutant babes lean poutily against a scarred brick wall. Strong-jawed men, like show dogs, slouch into a chair with ripped upholstery in a tawdry motel room with an acid neon glow. Pseudo lesbian melodramas enacted with a freaky tableau vivant flair in empty and cracked swimming pools.

Like the hidden morality in 17th century Dutch still-life paintings, this emphasis on so-called beauty in the midst of decay seems to serve as a twisted commentary on life. But whereas the Dutch saw the presence of a rotting peach as a reminder of the fleetingness of beauty and the importance of a moral life – here the condemned warehouse seems to say “hey, life is short so you might as well blow an obscene amount of money on killer boots.”

In addition, it adds a touch of class to poverty that further removes the conspicuously conspicuous consumer from the homeless, the hopeless, and the just plain poor. After all, how bad can it be to live in a deserted garage if it’s good enough for Ralph Lauren? And how easy to walk by some hairy, cart-pushing bum when he’s walking past a building that could, at any moment, be filled with well-built, oiled-up young studs in $50 boxer shorts?

Nope, I just don’t get it. And I’m damned glad about that.

Onwards

Well my deep and abiding loathing of "Soul-Sucking Software," finally reached the breaking point and I have quit. And no, I have nothing else lined up. Scared? You bet I am. Happy? Beyond words. I am so glad to be getting out of this megapocalyptic hell and back into the real world. And I cannot wait to see where I end up.

Wherever I end up, though, it will be due in no small part to the love, support, and help of my beloved husband. He is amazing. He's dragged me kicking and screaming through creating a resume and applying for a job. He's reminded me that I've made the right call...and tells me he's proud of me for choosing principles over paychecks. And he loves me. How in the world did I get so lucky?

Music Hath Charms
But not when you're in a musically ambivalent mood. Do I want to listen to Chopin or Louis Armstrong? Garth Brooks or Khadja Nin? Salsa, Celtic, Afro-pop, or Japanese pop? Usually I love having a large music collection....today it's driving me crazy because I can't settle on one thing. Music is the one thing that helps me stay sane at work (well, music and my team), but today I'm in a state of confusion anyway, so it's carrying over into my musical choices. In the past hour I've listened to Henri Dikongue (from Cameroon by way of Switzerland), Caetano Veloso (too smooth for my busy mind), Dwight Yokam (nothing like a little shit-kicker music to jump start the brain), and Mozart. And so far....nothing is working.

A New Year...
...has begun, and I'm still unsure of what I want to be when I grow up. I just know it's not what I am now. I still want to save the world, but I don't know how. And oh my have I become used to having disposible income. I love being able to take vacations, to buy CDs, to go out to lunch with my friends...and I'm just selfish enough to want to keep that. I'm a bad person, sometimes, but aren't we all?

So, do you make New Year's resolutions? I've decided my mantra this year is going to be "Lighten the fuck up." I had all these serious thoughts about changing my world, my attitude, my life...and realized that most of them can be accomplished by not being so serious. I need more "water off a duck's back," and less "focus on the details." We'll see if I can carry this through. So...what do you want to do with your year?

World AIDS Day
Yesterday, December 1, was World AIDS Day. I wore the red ribbon in honor of my friends, and missed them dreadfully. 41 million people around the world are living (and dying) with AIDS. Only 1 million of them are receiving any sort of treatment for this still always-fatal disease. And yet, even in 2003, there are those who persevere in thinking of this as the "gay disease," and look upon AIDS support as a "political statement." Someone actually found my ribbon offensive. Personally, I find the fact that my best friend, Steve Sutherland died at the age of 31 to be infinately more offensive. Until there's a cure, I promise not to give up the fight.

Rain
It rained last night. The first good, strong rain of the season. Fall has fallen. Last week it was warm bordering on hot. Today I pulled a favorite old sweater out of the bottom drawer and have once again found the joy of wrapping cold hands around a mug of hot tea. It's gray and dreary out, but I welcome this change.

Those who say California has no seasons are wrong. We do. Not, perhaps, as dramatic as the fall colors of New England followed by the deep white snows of winter. But we have our cool fall nights, our rainy winter days, the first, hesitant sunshine of spring, and the glorious heat of summer. I must confess, however, that I do occasionally get fed up with people who move to California, triple the price of houses in my home town, and then complain about how much they miss "real" seasons. If you miss "real" seasons so much, go back to the blizzard and let me buy a damn house!

Oh dear, that gentle musing on the weather turned rather bitchy, didn't it? Well, them's the breaks, folks.

I've had another brilliant idea!
I want to have a bunch of bumper stickers made up that read "Overcompensating for a tiny penis." Then I want to stick on on every Hummer I see.

Why does this have a cult following?
By which I mean Babylon 5, one of the most boring things ever. My husband is a big fan and recently bought the first few seasons on DVD. Any show where, when you tell a fan that you're watching the first season, immediately burstst into "it gets better! Really!", you know you're in trouble.

Where to start? Well, first off the lead (who I call Rex Ranger) is about as wooden as they come and seems to "emote" entirely by bugging out his eyes and saying his lines through gritted teeth. There's absolutely no charisma between any of the characters and for most of the first season....nothing happens.

Apparently there are "clues" that lead to the interesting bits in seasons 2-5....but by that time I'll be so asleep that I won't wake up when the explosions begin. I finally gave up and skipped the last 3 episodes entirely. My beloved watched them and then, when I asked what happened, proceeded to tell me about more developments in 3 hours than in the entire series so far. So I sat through all the cardboard and missed the dessert? Just my luck.

As I said, apparently "it gets better! Really!" so I've promised to watch the first 2 episodes of the second season...but so far, I'm bored out of my skull. Sorry, sweetie.

Hey, I've got a brilliant idea!
Since I hate the farce that has become the California recall, and since I work for a company that likes to fire people so that they can hire cheaper labor overseas, I think we should "outsource" the position of Governor of California to India. We won't have to pay the Governor as much plus (and here's the key), Arnold won't relocate so he's not a possibilitiy any more!

A single voice?

A history book that I've been reading makes the excellent point that we like to think of our elected officials as "leaders," but that many of them are really followers. Most of the important social movements in US history have been started by the people -- and by people on the fringe at that. Abolitionism. Suffrage. The civil rights movement. All of these started as people pissed off enough to do something, and committed enough to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve change. So, for those of us who wish we could do more, I offer today's piece of advice: don't give up. We may feel powerless, but that might not be the case. We just need to fight against the narrow-minded, war-mongering, conservatives who want to tromp over human rights in the name of "God bless the USA."

Oh please...
So I saw a print ad for the Hummer this weekend, and it had the tagline "big is the new small." Uh huh...and pointless is the new clever? Hey, I'm gonna trademark that. You heard it here first, folks, "pointless is the new clever™."